In Unread Words.

In Unread Words

A sad and lonely poet,
comes to the end of his rhyme.
The suns and moons, of age, are passing,
through the canyons of his mind.

“We knew the way,” he sadly cries,
“we could have shown you life.”
“Your eyes I see are crying now,
they dim your blood-stained knife.”

And far away along a line
where the burnt earth meets the sky,
the sons of love and hate indifferent
rise to light the warrior’s day.

There’s a woman who stands,
in the shadows of dawn,
and points into the sun.
And there is a new-born child,
who paints the sun’s return.

The distance between is measured,
by a man swathed in funeral black.
His rule is forged black gold.
His story is a song of war,
a tale too easily told.

A poet’s tears fall into oceans,
Plagued with life’s own fears.
“We knew the way,” he softly cries,
“A child sleeps somewhere in a sun,
to dream a road so clear.”

“We know the way,”
he softly sighs.
“A child sleeps somewhere in a sun,
to dream a road so clear.”

I can’t find a date for this one but it’s likely to be 1977/78. I’d originally formatted it (using my trusty and quite probably rusty typewriter) with odd line breaks but reading it back I decided that they didn’t really work, so here it is with more normal line breaks.

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